chapter 25! who knows how many more? I'm estimating around 30ish, if you all stick around that is :) thank you for your feedback and support, and I hope you enjoy! (lmao prob a bit less than 30 but who knows)

Winter 1631, Swedish camp in Leipzig

In years to come, Sweden would look back upon this time and reminisce that his growing power had never been more turbulent, nor more dangerous. He could feel it coming in waves and bursts, suffused with adrenaline after every fresh victory. The encounter with Prussia was no more than a fading embarrassment to him now. It had been a fatal error, admittedly, being caught by such obvious and goading bait, but Sweden knew he would only become the better for it. He had sworn to himself every night since their enemy's escape that he would be stronger, more resilient, a true and cold empire of the north. The words of others are no more than wind. Like wind he let them brush past; harmless, barely even there. Instead he let his frustration burn into vengeance, picturing the day when Prussia would at last kneel before the mightier swords of Scandinavia. And if he would not submit, then Sweden was only too happy to dispose of an untamed hound. Burn the body, scatter the ashes, make sure the job's done. Prussia would not rise again as he had let Norway do so.

King Gustavus had done his best to smoke out the proverbial rats, ordering the army to loot and burn a nearby village. A warning sign, an attempt to find their escaped prisoner- it did not matter what the truth was. Sweden had felt nothing but a sudden and searing need to ride victorious again, to experience the same thrill of a triumph won in blood and sweat that he had known so many times in the days of his youth. Now, recalling that day of death and destruction, the powerful and indomitable urge to fight that had overcome him almost nullified the violent acts they undertook. It was for the king that those people died, for the Swedish cause. And it had only seemed more right with Finland at his side this time. Sweden had not realised he had a point to prove, not until he glanced over at Finland after the day was done, firelight turning the blood smeared across his face crimson-gilt. It was only then that he knew it- Finland's opinion was all that mattered to him, the thing that had meant most throughout all of the centuries of their lives together. Because it is the only opinion that will endure. To make him proud- to see him smile, even if only for a second- was worth more than a thousand empires and more.

Their unexpected prevailment had garnered a good deal of interest from the rest of Europe, namely central powers who until then been ruled under the iron fist of the Holy Roman Emperor. All they want is guidance, Sweden knew. A leader less tyrannical to turn to. King Gustavus, being the schemer he was, thought it prudent to make the most of this sudden spike in popularity. Quietly, creeping in like smoke under the door, rumours began to spread around the Holy Roman Empire. Lord Wallenstein intended to join forces with the Protestants, it was whispered. The French king had already negotiated an alliance with Gustavus. Emperor Ferdinand himself planned to sue for peace within the year. There was a grain of truth in most of them, enough that the Catholic lords and princes began to waver in their loyalties. Or so the king's spiders told him; he had enough spies in every major European household that their secrets might as well have been laid bare for the entire Swedish court to pick over. Already they had secured support from several princes of poverty-stricken Anshalt, a negotiation so easy that it seemed no more than a cordial conversation. That at least had been simple. Sweden knew that it would culminate into something bigger with time, a burgeoning strength that kept the fire behind his eyes burning.

So he was hardly surprised when news arrived at their camp of the council being held in Halle. The city was a small one, not so far from their current location outside of Leipzig- out of Ferdinand's sight, Sweden had thought as soon as the news came. They departed in grandeur, draped in all the pomp and ceremony that a king's column required. Every soldier's armour was polished to the highest sheen, tossing back the weak winter sunlight so that it dazzled and glittered; the baggage carts were covered with rich navy Persian rugs embroidered with Sweden's leaping lion; the king and his closest advisors trailed cloaks of the finest royal blue behind them, riding past resplendent through lands that they had conquered and claimed and burnt. Sweden forced himself not to squint as a ray of sunlight shifted to fall upon the lenses of his glasses. As ever, his wandering gaze came to rest upon Finland, and he did not even attempt to restrain the flickering grin that crept over his face. They had done this together, built an empire on nothing but ragged hope and blurred dreams- and here, now, in this premature winter sun, every one of their sacrifices had paid itself back in kind. Is this worth it? he had asked himself so many times in the early days. The answer was obvious now.

Field workers and farmers would stop to ogle the procession as they rode, eyes peering out in curiosity from dirt-streaked faces. Their work-roughened hands, their shrewd honest faces, reminded Sweden of the villagers he had slain that fateful day after Prussia's escape. Something hot and unpleasant tightened in the middle of his chest. He never took a step unless its every risk was calculated, and this had initially appeared to be the same case. Yet I could not have anticipated this regret, this pain. For Sweden, said King Gustavus. For our noble cause. That should have been enough, but still guilt wracked Sweden every time he thought of it. We'll have to win this war, then. That seemed just enough, though it was a twisted, perverted image of justice that he appealed to. Now Sweden gazed out at the villagers who had come to see their train of glory, remembering suddenly that they were passing through the lands of their new Anshalt allies. Some cheered for their overlords, and the liberation they were bringing, whilst others were merely content to stare in bewilderment at the foreigners. He heard a few shouts of 'Schweden!', and a second small smile slipped from his lips. At the head of the column, the king raised a hand in salute, prompting more cheers.

'Schweden! Schweden!' The shout swelled and rose, bursting into a roar that filled Sweden from top to toe with a tingling warmth. It had been years since he had heard the same cry from the throats of his own people, most of their wars having been fought in the drier, hotter wastes of the rest of Europe. But this- this was different. A placing of trust. An assurance that they would win freedom back for these people. Even after the yells had long since faded away into the darkening sky, the same warm pride still filled him, and he rode the long and lonely path to Halle with hope alive in his heart.

Halle, Northwestern Germany, 1631

Their arrival was hailed by a bitter, frost-chilled morning with a sky as sharp and unblemished as steel. Too sharp for Sweden's fledgling hopes, too cold for Finland's eternal sunshine; such unforgiving weather would not bode well for this meeting, if they believed in such omens. Sweden's eyes watered behind his mist-fogged glasses as they rode through the high iron gates, and it was difficult not to reach up and wipe away the stinging sensation. It did not help that his heart was beating so intensely that there might as well have been a snare drum ensconced within his chest. Such was its fretful force, a numbing ache began to spread through Sweden's chest, clenching at his throat until it was all he could do not to burst out in a coughing fit from the pain. Almost as though my younger, weaker self has come back to haunt me. If so, then it was at perhaps the most inopportune moment possible. The empire-fit resilience that he had built up nudged at him like a shaming reminder, telling Sweden that he could not lose everything this time. That he could not survive another defeat.

'Sve.' Finland's voice came soft at his side, dropping a brief pool of calm into his nerves. 'This is your moment.' He turned to see Finland smiling gently at him, the pale winter sun turning the wheat-and-flaxen shades of his hair to burnished gold. An angel framed in gilt and ice; a soothing presence that disguised layers of razor-sharp intent. 'If this goes as planned, it will be your turn to write a chapter in history. One that favours Sweden. No one, nothing, can take that away from you.' Sweden pictured the room full of disapproving faces that awaited him within these walls, and was forced to swallow his terror down for a second time.

'I would be nowhere without you,' he whispered, unable to raise his voice to much of a louder volume. A fond and crooked smile spilt Finland's previously concerned countenance. He let his gloved hand brush over Sweden's arm- every finger sending a delicious tremble through him- and rode forth to meet their fate with all of the boldness that he had possessed since the first day they met.

A low rumble of voices sounded from the other side of the door, and Sweden cast a nervous glance at his king. Gustavus was unruffled as ever in such situations, face blank and impassive. Our entrance will be imposing, he had promised. Sufficient to wither any presumptous ideas these German lords might have. And, as Sweden took the first few steps into the soaring-ceiled council chamber, it seemed as though the king's word was as good as it had ever been. The murmuring and muttering was extinguished like a candle in the wind. Sweden was horribly aware of how loudly his shoes were rapping against the floor, (Italian marble; most impressive) but he did not falter once. He reached his chair with no great incident, stopping just before it when the assembled lords and princes rose to their feet. King Gustavus surveyed them all with his customary knife-sharp gaze. Like two pools of merciless steel, those eyes, and many a man better than Sweden had quailed before them. To their credit, none of the nobility present displayed any outward signs of fear; they remained straight-faced, deferential, and took their seats a decorum-dictated second after the king took his own. And so the snake pit opens up, thought Sweden with a shiver of dull anticipation. It was easy to see how this seating configuration had been planned. The Swedish king presiding over all, Sweden as his most trusted confidante to the right, the Elector of Saxony at his left. Butter-golden light spilled out from a small circular window above, illuminating the three most vital faces of the Protestant cause.

'My lords,' began Gustavus. His tone was impeccably polite, smooth and measured. Not even a hint of tension could be found in the stern and focused planes of his face. 'I thank you all for coming, not least in times of caution and distrust such as these. It is my sincere wish that every man at this table shall come to have faith in the others. This faith will come in time, and only if you are all prepared to cooperate.' His words were carefully chosen, avoiding insult but laying out the threat bare and unveiled. Do as I bid you, and only then will all be well. 'Each of us shall lay out his terms for this war, and they will be discussed primarily in this council. Mine are as follows: we stall the invasion of Prague for as long as necessary, and instead capture a number of other major cities in the empire to limit the Emperor's territory, before this conflict is brought to a close. That is all.' He inclined his head a little, inviting the next speaker.

Sweden observed in silence as the others took it in turns to outline their wishes. It occurred to him that he and Finland were the only nations present, the only representatives of a kingdom that were not noble or elected otherwise. Though he did not doubt that some of these men would know of their existence; lives such as theirs were irrevocably entwined with the monarchy and court life, whether they liked it or not. Bound by ties of blood and pain that only strengthen as the centuries slip by. That fact alone shifted the tides of power subtly in the kingdom of Sweden's direction; to have the force and vigour of two nations accompanying every strategy was worth more than a thousand soldiers. Though some of the other attendees did not seem to have realised it. The Elector in particular had adopted a rather aggressive stance, steepling his hands together so that they pointed upwards like a knife and staring down each man with those deep-set dark eyes of his. Sweden performed a scan of his own, half-listening to the conversation whilst the majority of his focus was fixated elsewhere. The eyes are the most vulnerable part, that is for certain. Much could be gleaned from even the most fleeting of glances.

Some were avaricious, grasping, and they spoke of the great riches that there were to be found in Prague. Ripe for the taking, they argued, and no better time to pluck the fruit than now. Others appeared a little more cautious. They sat back, tasting the oak-matured French wine with a sort of affected nonchalance, smirks quirking their mouths if someone made a comment they deemed to be ill-informed. Snakes, men who saw nothing but how this situation or that might benefit them. Untrustworthy beyond a doubt. And there were men such as Sweden had once been, honest, open-hearted fools who were disinclined to believe any ill rumours they heard, loyal to a fault and beyond. Men who would be torn apart in a lion's den such as this. But I survived, thought Sweden grimly, I ran my course through fate's maze of death and I came out alive. Changed, of course, sterner and stonier, but all the better for it. It was easy to read tales in someone's eyes. Eyes that he'd seen countless times over the years, here again to haunt him. Only this time Sweden knew how to conquer them.

King Gustavus' chair scraping against the marble floor jerked him back to the present. A silence fell that was even more steely and smothering that the one at their entrance, if that were possible.

'When I first ventured into this conflict, embittered by my kingdom's wars in Poland, I did not expect to arrive at the position I currently find myself in,' he began again, endowing the listeners with a kingly little bow of the head. 'And I did not expect to gain so many allies, so many willing additions to the Protestant cause that Denmark-Norway failed in dramatic fashion. This can be accredited in part to every man sat here.' That earned him a few inclines of the head in return, and a lemon-pucker smile from the Elector. 'But I am not complacent, my friends, far from it. I will not remain satisfied in this manner.' That was certainly true, reflected Sweden, remembering a time several decades ago when this very same king had ridden his army across ice to escape from the Danish forces. 'Only with your continued support shall we be able to maintain this most unexpected, most welcome glory. Every man who stands with me will not be forgotten when it comes to the end.' Those last two words hung in the air, shivering. And indeed, what sort of end shall we meet?

'Here is my vision,' continued Gustavus, and now a note of true delight entered his voice, for this was the moment that it had taken twenty years to reach. 'A Swedish-German empire, all of our kingdoms united in glory under one banner, the new terror of the Northern seas.'

'Dominium maris baltici,' came Finland's voice, quiet as falling mist. His tone was not a sanguine one. For those three words- softened by the Latin pronounciation, bundled up in various treaties to take the sting out of them- meant everything that they had won and fought for and lost and done the same again for almost three hundred years. The root of their feud with Denmark and Norway; the reason why Estonia and Lithuania still plagued them to this day.

'We shall have the Baltic too,' murmured back Sweden. 'We shall have anything we care to take,' he said, whispering beneath the king's continued speech.

'Trade control in Europe will belong to Sweden and to the loyal Protestant states of the Holy Roman Empire,' Gustavus was saying. 'Our religion will be the sole religion, our laws the rule of the land. United, the Catholics of Spain will crumble before us. Denmark-Norway's attempt at conquering was no more than the failure of an estranged brother land-' His eyes flickered to Sweden knowingly- '-and I swear that we shall be more successful.' Another pause, another silence. Nothing but the heavy weight of dreams hanging in the air. 'If this alliance prevails, my friends, then the North will be ours. Europe will be ours. That is all.' He took his seat again, eyes bright as his gaze flashed upwards to capture the others' faces. Complete, unanimous veneration- even the Elector of Saxony seemed to have forgotten his facade of indifference. This king was a rallier, a speech-maker of the finest kind, and his words had struck a chord deep within. Thor send us strength, prayed Sweden, and for the first time since his old gold-tinged glory days, it appeared as though that might just come to pass.

From there, the train of speeches dissolved into animated discussion, and arguments coated with the well-bred gloss of lords and princes. The strategy that King Gustavus had devised back in Stockholm was proving to be a controversial one. Cut through southwestern Germany, he proposed, looting any town unfortunate enough to find itself in their path, then capture the city of Vienna and leave Emperor Ferdinand with his hands tied. A plan of striking simplicity upon paper; these German nobles were picking it apart like rats in a pile of string. Many of them advised caution against such a bold route. Count Tilly was situated in the northwest, they declared with untuous smiles, and to ride directly to Vienna was to ride just where the Catholic forces wanted them. Sweden remembered Count Tilly- a small, rather rodent-like man, with bulging grey eyes that watered like an overflowing fountain- remembered the way his infantry had shattered and fled before the Swedish cavalry, and decided that it was a risk more than worth taking.

'But,' said the Elector of Saxony when the tension was particularly rancid, 'I have here a letter from Sweden's own financer. A man who has, perhaps wisely, deigned to remain nameless.' That last part was for their benefit alone. A searing, smoking sensation crept its way onto Sweden's face. 'He implored me to make King Gustavus see reason, to abandon these thoughts of war in Tilly's territory and fabricate a more nuanced strategy. The costs of this expedition alone are astronomical.' The silence that blanketed the room now was of a different ilk; smothering, disquieted, heavy with indecision.

'I would not argue that they are astronomical,' said the king in a muted voice. He knitted his long scarred fingers together, and only Sweden to his right glimpsed the troubled sheen of sweat gleaming on the back of his neck. 'An investment of this sort will pay itself back in kind a thousand times over, perhaps more. Profits from southern Germany will finance us all for decades to come, and our heirs once we are no longer on this earth. This expedition is daring, yes, but if executed correctly then it means security. Safety. Freedom from oppression.' Once again the opposing voices lapsed into submission, and Sweden heaved an inward sigh of relief that King Gustavus' authority had not been shaken. At his side Finland was idle, eyes roving glassily over the dewdrop-glowing chandelier. It was a practiced torpor, though; the drumming of his fingers upon the table was systematic, rhythmic.

'But what of our finances now?' protested someone from further down the table in a tentative voice. 'We have little money, few resources, and no one is willing to finance a foreign war.' Others took up the argument, added their own voices to swell the discussion.

'That is an issue that shall be resolved in due course,' said Gustavus. He spoke softly, mildly, as though not wanting to offend, though his face had taken upon a pensive cast that suggested otherwise. I do not suffer fools gladly, he had said once, a young king pushed into adulthood by the wars swamping his kingdom. The same held true after almost twenty years. 'You-' he indicated the unfortunate man who had thought to counter his words- '-will cover the western flank, capturing minor towns there and warding off any attempts at conflict that Count Tilly may send our way, though I doubt he has the forces or the nerve to try.' He dispatched a good half a dozen others in this manner, assigning them roles of apparent importance as a guise for ridding himself of lickspittles and flatterers. A shield is forming- our German allies the ring of iron around the outside, and we the tempered wood caught within. Whether or not that iron ring held fast was another matter entirely.

Sweden had just begun to thing that he had endured this ordeal particularly well, when the weight of a cold and familiar hand dropped onto his shoulder. An equally chilled weight submerged his stomach. Mingling dread and disappointment raised a lump in his throat, and it took no small effort to resist the urge to throw off the king's hand.

'There is someone I need you to meet.' He nodded, ducked his head low- obeyed as he always did.

He and Finland were ushered into a side room that was somewhat less pleasant than the richly appointed council chamber; the floor's bare flagstones added a certain air of austerity, and a piercing wind rattled the windows so that they shook and shuddered against their frames. Silhouetted in front of the bleak northern sky was their mysterious visitor. He turned around, and the past flooded Sweden in all its sharp and nostalgic glory. The last time they met- almost twenty years ago, he thought with a shiver- Gustavus had been a sullen-faced young king, and Sweden's ambition for an empire was based on nothing more than dreams. Netherlands put out his hand, his smile almost sincere. Sweden shook it with somewhat more than a few reservations. He followed suit with Finland, nodding jovially at them both as his narrowed eyes flitted around the room. That was Jan's way; to be unsubtle in his opinions and threats, then to strike with deadly secrecy when the foe least expected it.

'I must say I was pleased to hear of your rising fortunes in this world,' he said, as though he had played some part in it. 'Perhaps this time the north will be gifted an empire of true puissance.' Jan crossed to the other end of the room, abandoning his travel-stained cloak on a nearby chair to gaze from the clouded window. 'I have just returned from a most unsatisfactory meeting in Copenhagen,' he added casually. 'My fellow negotiators were rather opposed to any sort of agreement, it seemed.' Sweden's heart leapt, sending a aching spike of fear through his chest. This was no friendly meeting between nations. This was no chance exchange, but a planned and plotted manipulation, a trap that he had walked into willingly. Any trust- though such a thing was rare when it came to dealing with Netherlands- was long fled by now. Netherlands' brow furrowed as he turned to scrutinise Sweden. His stare was piercing, uncomfortably so, with the aura that he was stripping away every layer of Sweden's skin to expose the flaws nestled deep within him. 'I said this to your dear brother,' continued Jan in conversational tones. 'I implored him to understand that I would join this war only for the good of my country, I appealed to Norway's rather more sensible view of the world as well. Neither wanted to listen for long.'

'So that's what you're here for?' said Finland quietly. 'To tell us that you're prepared to betray us if it'll save your land?'

'I am more than happy to remain loyal to King Gustavus through any turmoils, as long as my people are rewarded adequately whenever the government see fit. You understand the setbacks of this modern arrangement, of course.' Sweden's head nodded in automatic compliance. Netherlands argued a good point, it had to be said, though a ruthlessly logical one, and the honour-bound patriotic side of Sweden was crying out for some justice to be done. Already he disliked Jan's cold tongue, his deceptive shifts between cordiality and callousness. He is a businessman, rather than a nation. A man who cares to protect nothing but his own skin. To be a nation was a mixed blessing, a burden at times, but there was no denying the mantle of trust and honour that came with it. Netherlands had destroyed that image in just a few carefully placed words.

'If you are asking for an alliance, we cannot-'

'Sverige.' Finland's voice cut through the mire, as it so often did. 'The king has summoned him to make an alliance, to finance this war as far as he can, and we have no choice but to forge that alliance,' he said in rapid, whispered Swedish. 'Do you understand?' Candlelight captured and blossomed in the violet-blue orbs of his eyes, and Sweden was overcome by a momentary wave of regret. I do not appreciate him enough, yet he is at the foundations of all that I do as a nation.

'So you do not trust me,' said Netherlands, displeased at his sudden exclusion. 'Well, I suppose that is fair. Your brother also appeared to be somewhat irked by my arguments, though it was not my intention to have the same effect today.'

'Then-' began Sweden, stumbling over the word through gritted teeth. 'Then we are pleased to accept your alliance, and any terms you offer.' A vicious pleasure lit up Jan's eyes that he did not even bother to conceal.

'The Dutch council expects a payment for every year that this war lasts,' he said, in control again. 'And some form of compensation for five further years after, to make up for the money stolen from us by the Sound tolls. You have been affected similarly, of course, but it was a war between Denmark and Sweden that raised those taxes to start with.' His lips curved upwards, razor-thin. 'It is only fitting that you repay the debt now.' Finland's anger was making itself felt, in that slow, burgeoning manner he had, and Sweden willed them both to remain calm. This is for our own good. This is so that we might triumph, at last.

'Of course.'

'Of course. And we have requested a thirty percent share of any profits you might take from Denmark-Norway throughout the duration of this war- no doubt, family rivalries such as yours cannot stay buried for long.' The derisive flick of Jan's eyes suggested that his own family were plagued by no such traumas. Sweden was reminded, in a most unwelcome manner, of the first time he had sworn an oath to this man of snake's stares and venom-dripping words. The scar remained on his hand, darting and silvery like the flash of a bravo's blade. He decided that a simple handshake would suffice upon this occasion. Their palms met in a mingling of cool determination and sweaty frustration. Yet that familiar lightning strike still flashed through him; thrust into the centre of the storm, only this time he was its master and its creator.

lotsss of angst coming up soon